


Arms Race

by Grim_Giggles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-14 10:52:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11206578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grim_Giggles/pseuds/Grim_Giggles
Summary: Nearly a year after stopping the Apocalypse, Dean and Cas get sucked back into the war between Heaven and Hell. Raphael wants to free Michael and Lucifer from the Cage, but someone has stolen Heaven's Arsenal, and the former Quartermaster is out for blood. Meanwhile, artifacts so powerful that they pose a threat to the Host are scattered across the continent, and whoever collects the most wins.





	Arms Race

**Author's Note:**

> This story is what grew out of "With a Little Help from my Friends." It's canon-compliant up through the end of Season 5, but then the "what if" aspect kicks in and the plot veers. That's not to say a lot of the same things won't happen; I try to stay true to the characters and the things I love about the show.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's old life has caught up with him in the form of Meg Masters (or rather, the demon using her name). She takes Dean's family hostage to lure him into a trap. Meanwhile, Cas is having his own problems; an old friend has resurfaced, with a big red target on his back.
> 
> Oh, and there is torture, just so you know. I don't know about graphic, but... yeah.

SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

The insistent beeping of an alarm clock pulls Sam out of a deep, empty sleep. His eyes fly open and he sits bolt upright in bed with a death grip on his sheets, panting heavily. A light hits his eyes, blinding him, and he raises an arm to protect his face. 

“Mmm, Sam, are you going to turn that off?”

Electricity runs through Sam’s veins at the sound of that voice. He lets his arm drop and looks down at the woman lying at his side. Beams of sunlight (why did he hide from it?) pierce the slatted windows and fall across her body in stripes. His eyes trace the high curve of her hips under the sheets, the pregnant bulge of her belly, the straight lines of her collarbone, the golden tangles of her hair. That one dark freckle between her eyes. The _I’m-going-to-kill-you-in-a-minute_ look she gives him.

“Jessica?”

Her lips move in a sleepy, dry-mouth kind of way, and her eyes flutter open.

“That’s me,” she mumbles. “Your nauseated and hormonal wife. I swear to god, Sam, if you don’t turn that off -”

Sam scrambles to hit the right button on the alarm clock, glancing at the flashing numbers. 5:00 AM. He turns back to Jessica, gazing at her in wonder. She sees him looking and gives him a puzzled frown.

“What?”

Sam shakes his head. He feels - he’s not sure. The sight of her in bed next to him makes him sad and grateful, but he can’t remember why. After a minute of speechless wonder, he settles for:

“You are so beautiful.”

She snorts, but a smile parts her lips. Overcome, he leans across the bed and kisses her joyfully, caressing the mound of her belly. She laughs into his mouth and runs a hand through his hair.

Something warm and sticky seeps through the sheets and wets his hand. He pulls it away and looks at it, then sits up with a stricken yell. His hand is covered in blood, marbled black and red. In a flash the image is gone and his hand is dry and clean. 

“Sam?” Jess’ voice is clear and tight with worry. “Sam? What’s the matter?”

Sam blinks and shakes his head to clear it, letting his hand drop. He looks back into Jessica’s big, startled eyes, and forces a smile. 

“It’s nothing,” he says. “Just remembering a weird dream.”

He kisses her again, then kicks the orange sheet aside and rolls out of the bed. He walks into the spacious closet, rummages around, and comes out a few minutes later in running clothes and neon Adidas. These puzzle him and he stares down at his feet for a moment, but the feeling passes as quickly as it comes over him, and he shrugs and slips out the door, pausing for one more astonished look at his once more sleeping wife. 

There is a golden retriever in the front room who practically leaps off his bed at the sight of Sam coming down the stairs, tail wagging ecstatically. He bounces back and forth between Sam and the front door, and Sam reaches without thinking for the blue leash hanging from the coat rack, clipping it to the dog’s matching collar. Both collar and leash declare the dog’s name to be _Andy_. Sam quells another inexplicable flash of sadness before opening the door and stepping out into a small, square front yard, totally sparse but well-maintained, plugging in a pair of ear buds, and pressing play as he takes off down the street.

He smiles as the first chords break on his eardrums: 

_Carry on my wayward son_

_There’ll be peace when you are done…_

His route is familiar, at least to his legs. They carry him through the historic neighborhoods and out, crossing a busy road to a lakeside trail. Andy keeps pace with him as they round an inlet and come to a park, then circle around the park and come back. Lake Merritt glitters darkly at their side the whole way. The Summer San Francisco sunrise makes it glint redly. Sam tries not to look at it. 

Jessica is still asleep when he gets home, and doesn’t wake while he feeds Andy and mounts the stairs again. At the top of the stairs, he passes an open door catches a whiff of smoke and heat. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees flickering flames, but when he turns his head, all he sees is the nursery, exactly as it should be. A white rocking chair sits expectantly in the corner, a brightly colored quilt draped over the back. The middle of the room is dominated by a big black crib with very solid bars, over which hangs a delicate-looking mobil. It catches the sunlight coming through the open window and throws it in crazy fractals across the freshly painted walls. That must be what caught his eye. Shaking his head, Sam continues down the hall.

He pads softly across his bedroom to the cramped master bath and strips out of his sweaty clothes. In the shower, he lets the water massage his shoulders, bending his head under the shower nozzle so that it runs over the back of his neck and trickles through his hair. He closes his eyes for a second; when he opens them he has to bite his lip to stifle his shout. 

He stares at the water running crystal clear into the drain. For a second he could have sworn it ran a dark red. 

Sam turns off the water and steps out of the shower, grabs a towel to dry himself off, then wraps it around his waist. He stands in front of the mirror and stares very hard at himself. 

This… is him, isn’t it? That is his haircut (and so what if it went out of style ten years ago, it’s _him_ ). That is his nose (straight enough that not even Jessica has noticed how many times it was broken when he was a kid). That is definitely his mouth (a tight, guilty line). Those are definitely his eyes (deceptively soft). The beautiful wife, the growing baby, the faithful dog, the perfect house in the heart of Oakland; these are all the right parts, but something about the whole seems off. 

He frowns and watches his reflection pull the same face. 

_You’re losing it, Sam,_ he thinks, stepping back and turning away from the mirror.

“Oh, yeah, definitely,” his own voice replies. He spins back around and sees his reflection grinning at him. Mirror Sam raises a speculative finger and muses, “The question is, how do you know what’s real? Is it your sleeping Baby Mama in the other room?” Sam glances at the closed door, wishing he could have eyes on Jessica right now. Mirror Sam grins. “Or is it that other thing you’re trying not to think about? The smell of sulfur. The trickle of blood. Those screams right at the edge of hearing. Any of this a-ringin’ a bell, Sam?”

Sam stares at his reflection. He does hear something, or thinks he does, but it’s so faint that until now he assumed it wasn’t really there, like the beginning of a ringing in his ears.

“You’re not real,” he says. It’s more of a prayer than a confident statement of fact.

Mirror Sam shrugs coyly. “Okay, if that’s what you want. Just tell me one thing, and I’ll —” he snaps his fingers, “poof right out of your nauseating little happily-ever-after here.” 

“What?” Sam asks. “What do you want?”

Not-Sam’s grin fades into a straight-faced scowl. 

“Where is your brother?”

~

CICERO, INDIANA

OCTOBER 2011

_Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams_

_Telling myself it’s not as hard, hard, hard as it seems..._

Dean switches off the engine of the old truck and it rattles on for half a second before abruptly shutting up. He lets the last strains of music die out, taking deep breaths, before turning the key the rest of the way, pulling it from the ignition, and climbing out. He slams the door behind him because the stupid thing won’t stay shut otherwise. 

Pausing in the driveway, he casts a fleeting look at the garage, where his baby is waiting for the weekend. He has the picnic basket (stolen from Lisa’s sister last Easter), the fishing rods (second-hand but sturdy), Bobby’s old baseball glove (gruffly given the last time he’d visited with a _no-chick-flick-moments_ look from the old man) - everything but a decent day off work and a destination worthy of the picture in his head.

He sighs and trudges up the porch steps, jingling Lisa’s keys in one hand as he presses the other into the hidden sigil below the doorbell. 

What _should_ happen is a discreet flash of angel mojo as the wards on the house, wards Cas and Bobby helped him research and put in place, power down.

What _actually_ happens is a red-flag-raising nothing.

He takes a step back from the door and does a quick visual sweep of the street. The only thing that looks out of place is the garish pink flamingos in the garden across the street; someone — probably that jackass high schooler down the block — has placed them so that they look like they’re fucking. And then there’s Sid’s yard, which always looks out of place (who builds a freaking rock garden in _Cicero_?), so that’s whatever.

He turns back to the door and looks for more signs of trouble, but finds nothing else out of the ordinary. Maybe Lisa or Ben just forgot to reactivate the ward? Or maybe someone accidentally messed up one of the sigils; it’s happened before.

Right. Probably something like that.

Dean tucks the keys into his pocket and goes around the house, picking up the handgun he has stashed behind a rose trellis on his way. He stops short and grits his teeth when he sees the back door standing open and a flowerpot overturned. 

“Lisa?” he calls. “Ben?”

No one answers. He raises his gun and flicks the safety off, pressing himself against the wall and peering around the door before stepping into the kitchen.

Ben’s homework is spread across the kitchen table, so he’s been home today. There are two half-full cups of tea on the coffee table in the living room. Ben hates the stuff, so Lisa had a guest. Other than that, nothing appears to be out of place inside; no signs of struggle and nothing missing except for Dean’s family. He lowers the gun as he clears the last room, feeling his stomach beginning to churn with worry. 

So, Lisa had a friend over, they had tea, and then — what? They were raptured?

Shit. Time to do another sweep. 

Something catches Dean’s eye this time. The math worksheet at the top of Ben’s homework is supposed to be something about slope formulas, but instead of his not-quite-son’s usual obsessive, tight calligraphy, there are large block letters scrawled across the paper:

POUGHK

_Poughkeepsie._ Trouble. 

He pulls out his phone and starts dialing. Lisa’s number goes through with no problem; Dean hears her phone ringing in their bedroom. Ben doesn’t answer his phone. Cas’ goes straight to voicemail: 

“Hello, this is me. Castiel. Um… What should I say next, Dean?” _Beep._

Shit.

“Cas, do you ever charge your phone?” he growls. “Call me back as soon as you get this. Ben and Lisa are in trouble. They’re just — gone. So whatever the hell you’ve been up to, drop it. I need your help.”

He hesitates before dialing the last number, then listens to the ringing on the other end with bated breath. After four rings, Bobby’s voice barks over the line:

“Who is this and how’d you get this number?”

Dean grunts in exasperation and hangs up before the beep. He’s left too many messages on Bobby’s answering machine and voicemail over the last couple days. And hey, Bobby’s busy, he gets that; the old crank will probably be calling him back tomorrow to chew him out for lighting up his phone while he was in the middle of a big hunt. 

It’s just that Dean has a gut feeling he won’t, which is another thing for him to worry about.

On a whim he tries Ben’s phone again. This time, Ben answers right away. 

“Dean?”

“Ben!” Dean can’t keep the relief out of his voice. “Thank God. Where are you?”

“Hey Dean,” a woman croons into his ear. “Long time no try to kill you.”

Dean’s world freezes over at the sound of her voice. It’s a voice that dredges up memories like shrapnel and scrapes them across his mind’s eye with a shard of glass: the unwanted weight and heat of an innocent girl’s body, her hands exploring very private parts of him while his were painfully tied; flashing yellow eyes and his father’s dead body; the stink of sulfur and wet dog; Ellen’s and Jo’s faces, smeared with blood and sweat and dirt and finality. It’s the voice of loss and defeat.

“You.”

Meg’s cheerful cackle bounces around in his head. “You recognize my voice over the phone?” she giggles. “I have to say, Dean, I am flattered. I had no idea I made such an _impression_.”

“Listen, Bitch, if you lay a finger —”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll hunt me down, torture me, and kill me if I hurt your piece of ass and little Dean Junior here,” she interrupts. “Blah, blah, blah, same old story.” She sighs loudly into the receiver and the sound turns into a crackle in Dean’s ear. “Dean, sweetie, do you ever get bored of being _so_ predictable?”

“How did you find me?” he asks through grinding teeth.

She hums. “Oh, I’ve had demons watching you all summer now. From a distance, of course. No point in barging in on you and giving away our position when you’re so chummy with dear old Clarence.  But enough about me.” Her voice drips with glee. “I had no idea you had such a beautiful little family, Dean! They seem like a real trade up from Sam.”

“Don’t even —” 

“More threats?” Meg asks, raising her voice over his low growl. “Really? They’re _fine,_ Dean. For now.  Here, I’ll prove it.”

The next voice he hears is Lisa’s, scared but controlled.

“Dean? I’m so sorry, I forgot to turn the wards back on when I got home with Ben, so when she knocked I had no idea she was — she’s his Health teacher, Dean!”

“It’s okay,” he says, trying to sound reassuring and confident despite the roaring in his ears. His _teacher?_ She didn’t have anything better to do than prey on goddamn _kids_? “It’s gonna be okay. I’m coming to get you. Just stay calm. How’s Ben?”

“He’s fine. He’s handling this a lot better than I am, actually. He keeps saying pretty much exactly the same thing you just did.”

Dean allows himself a fleeting smile, even as the anxiety churning his stomach grows fangs and starts tearing its way out _Alien_ style. Of course Ben is handling it. Dean remembers watching in disbelief (and a swell of pride to which he had absolutely no right, ‘cause _he’s not yours, stupid, and even if he is, it’s not like he got it from you, he hasn’t had a chance to get anything from you_ ) as a barely-eight-year-old Ben made sure kid after kid got out of that changeling nest before even thinking about himself, helping those who were too hurt or too terrified to move on their own, _taking fucking charge_.

If anything happens to him —

“Good,” he replies, taking a deep, slow breath. “Just stay calm, okay? It’s gonna be okay.”

“Dean.” _I’m not stupid,_ her tone says.

Meg’s voice comes back before she can say anything more. “All right, that’s it for your one phone call! Visiting hours are from now until eight o’clock this evening.” She giggles. “Meaning, you have two hours and thirteen minutes to come to the address I’m texting you right now —” 

Dean’s text alert goes off loudly in his ear, making him wince. 

“Before I go Marilyn Manson on your Marilyn Monroe. The kid gets an extra hour to live, because he’s just _so_ good. Are we clear?”

“You’re dead this time.”

Meg laughs loudly into the receiver. “I don’t think so. See you soon.” She hangs up.

Dean stares at the text, grinding his teeth as adrenaline pumps through his system again and pulls his thoughts into focus. They’re not happy thoughts, mostly images of his loved ones lying dead on a warehouse floor. He doesn’t know exactly what Meg wants this time, but it sure as hell isn’t family counseling. He pushes those images away and does the only thing he can think of: forwards the address to the number of every person who might be able to help him (or at least discover the bodies).

He charges out of the front door, letting it slam shut behind him, and jumps into the truck. As he grabs the steering wheel, he closes his eyes and sends one more risky message:

_Come on, Buddy, I know we’re fighting or something, but I’m about to Liam Neeson into a trap here and I could really use some backup. Where the hell are you?_

And he drives.

_~_

MEANWHILE

PROBABLY SOMEWHERE IN THE MIDWEST

Castiel is hanging from a stone wall by his wrists, spitting blood onto an already bloody floor, when he hears Dean praying to him. He doesn’t look up as a deep voice laughs nearby.

“Your master is calling,” the voice rumbles. The cold tip of an angel blade pricks his chin, forcing his head up. “Stupid of him, no?” His captor’s eyes glitter, the dark ones of his vessel and the thousand others that Castiel can see. “He must be _davvero in pericolo_.”

_I am sorry, Dean,_ Castiel thinks, adding an abstract plea to whomever might still care about what happens to Dean Winchester. This prompts another laugh from his captor, and a swift nick from the angel blade. Castiel sucks in a breath as the cut starts to drip.

The slumped figure to his right groans and raises his head, letting it fall back with a thump against the wall. Glancing over, Cas notes his weakened Grace and mangled wings. His vessel looks as though he was road-hauled across a road spike, and that’s just the external damage. Cas can smell internal bleeding, and judges from the sound of his breathing that he has at least two broken ribs.

Their tormentor also turns his attention to the other captive. 

“Balthazar, once again you come back to me,” he purrs, stalking over to grip a clump of sweat- and blood-soaked hair. He leans down so that they are nose to nose. “But I think you require a little more rest, hmm?” He pats Balthazar’s cheek. “Rest, _traditore_. I have thought of new ways to ask my questions.” He straightens up and strides toward the single barred door. “I shall return soon,” he tells the angel guarding it. “If one single thing is not how I am leaving it, your head will roll.”

The angel nods and he leaves. The door, a massive thing reinforced by steel bars, swings shut behind him with a noise like thunder.

“Always hated him,” Balthazar rasps. The effort makes him splutter and Cas winces as he sees flecks of blood appear on his mouth. Balthazar licks them away.

“I suspect the feeling is mutual,” Cas remarks absently, scanning the room once again for any possible escape, even though this is the fifteenth time and nothing new has miraculously appeared. His shackles are made of angelic silver and covered in Enochian sigils. The walls and door are also warded to the point that even a banishment would not work. The only way in or out for anything angelic is through the door, for which he would need a key, and the key is in the hands of Vergil.

Until recently, Vergil was the Quartermaster and head of security in Heaven. If he wants to keep Castiel and Balthazar here forever, he probably can.

Cas regards the angel at the door. She seems very young, although that may be an impression given by her vessel, a young woman with a dark ponytail and nervous eyes. The angel watching him through those eyes radiates tension, her folded wings twitching constantly. She does not want to be here.

Cas pities her, remembering the caged feeling of obeying orders that were clearly wrong because there was no thinkable alternative. Her eyes flicker towards him, then she blinks and looks at the wall beside his head. Such a natural movement, and so incredibly human. He feels the familiar swelling of envy in his chest.

_How long has she inhabited that vessel?_ he wonders. Weeks, at most, yet she seems to simply behave human on instinct. And Balthazar prances around in his vessel as though he were born in it — as though it _belongs_ to him. Castiel, meanwhile, still feels like an intruder in a body remade specifically for him.

Envy; a deadly sin, apparently. Cas is intimately familiar with all its shades and variations. He has always felt the use of the color green for jealousy to be a little too appropriate.

Ignoring the distracting emotion as always, he tilts his head at the guard. The shape and color of her grace seem to strike a faint chord in his long, long memory.

“You look familiar,” he says, though of course _look_ is a woefully inaccurate word.

Balthazar groans and picks his head up, regarding her from black and blue eyes.

“That’s Samandriel,” he wheezes. “We were in the same fledge. All right there, Sam?”

Her jaw tightens and a faint sneer appears around her mouth.

Despite Balthazar’s pathetic condition, Castiel can’t help but agree with the sentiment. Balthazar is the one who got him into this mess, who got them _all_ into this mess. Now Vergil will kill him, Raphael will make an example of Cas, and the world as they have come to know and love it will be doomed. That is all Balthazar’s fault.

“Thank you, Balthazar,” Cas intones, “but you shouldn’t talk.”

“Right, I’ll just hang from the wall and moan, shall I?”

Cas rolls his eyes and lets out an exasperated huff.

“Just _shut up_ ,” he growls, glaring at him. Balthazar lets his head drop again, the broken shape of his wings drooping to cover his true face. Cas bites back a surge of undeserved pity.

He turns his gaze back to Samandriel and catches her watching him. She instantly looks away again, and he remembers flashes of fluttering wings and eagerness.

“Samandriel.” He frowns. “I remember now. You were a messenger. How did you end up…” he casts a scornful look towards the door, “…here?”

The angel bites her lip, but makes no other sign of hearing him.

The door slams open and Vergil swaggers back in, holding a rolled-up cloth bundle under his arm. He looks at Samandriel and motions with his head towards the door. She practically runs from the room. 

Vergil grins a toothy grin and gestures after her. “She has no stomach for this work. As for me…” He hums and grabs the cloth bundle, shaking it open in one smooth motion to reveal a line of shining instruments. 

Balthazar lets out an exhausted whimper, which only makes Vergil grin wider. He looms over him and tilts his head up with long fingers under his chin.

“I must thank you for providing a diversion from what is usually a monotonous posting, Balthazar,” he croons. “I wish we could have kept up our game of cat and mouse just a tad longer, but…” He shrugs, sliding his other hand along the line of instruments. “You know Raphael.” He selects a long, thin hook, and a small scalpel-like blade, then turns to Balthazar and presses the flat of the blade against his lips. “So, you will tell me where all of the weapons are right now, and I will kill you quickly. Or…” he presses the tip of the hook to his throat, just above the place where his Grace pulses closest to the skin, “you will not, and I will kill you very slowly, and I will _still_ find all the weapons. What do you say?”

Balthazar stares down at the silver instruments pressed to his skin. He looks up at Vergil, back down at his tools, then sideways at Cas. 

“I say…” he rasps, licking his lips and looking back up at Vergil. “Go to Hell, you twisted Tarantino parody.”

Vergil’s eyes flit upwards and to the side as he presses the blade harder into Balthazar’s bottom lip, drawing a single drop of blood. “I do not know this Tarantino,” he muses, “but I believe you have refused my generous offer.” He pulls away the blade and lifts the hook, an eager smile spreading across his face. “ _Bravissimo_. Let us have some fun.”

_~_

ABANDONED WAREHOUSE (OF COURSE) JUST OUTSIDE OF CICERO

OCTOBER 2011

Dean screams in harmony with the wailing of heavy metal guitars blasting over the radio. Sweat streams down his face, stinging as it runs into the cuts crisscrossing there like a tic-tac-toe board. There is, in fact, a game of tic-tac-toe etched into his left cheek, and a little smiley face with X’s for eyes on his forehead. His hands are painfully strapped to the chair behind him, his fingers broken for good measure. 

A dark-haired woman bends close to his chest, smiling as she carves a stylized heart right above his real one. She steps back to look at it when she finishes, holding Dean’s knife away from her so that his blood doesn’t drip on her clothes. The crisp blue jacket and pencil skirt she wears give off a faint _sexy teacher_ vibe, Dean can’t help but notice, despite the situation and the ocean of hatred boiling inside of him.

He turns his screaming into a flood of choice invectives. She tuts and waves his knife under his nose admonishingly.

“Dean, watch your mouth,” she teases. “You wouldn’t want your son to pick up that kind of language, would you?”

From the other side of the warehouse comes a muffled grunting. Dean can’t see behind him, but Meg looks over his shoulder and cups a hand around one ear. 

“What’s that, Benji?” 

There is more muffled shouting, followed by the sound of a slap and a grunt of pain. Dean grits his teeth and jerks forward without thinking, the straps around his wrists and legs suddenly pulling tight and cutting into him. 

“Ben, I told you to keep quiet!” he yells over his shoulder. “Just sit tight!” He turns back to Meg and takes a couple of deep, shaky breaths through his mouth. The shaggy stink of dog reminds him that it isn’t only the demons he can see that he needs to worry about.

The rescue hadn’t gone as planned. Granted, there hadn’t really _been_ a plan, just the feeling of his heart hammering against his ribs, a faint red haze across his eyes, and a definite intent to commit murder before the night was over. A plan would have been helpful.

Help would also have been helpful. Dean had half expected Cas to just _appear_ in the passenger seat of the car, pissed off and windswept and ready to tear into some demons. There’s no way he’d let Ben and Lisa suffer because he was mad at Dean. But, of course, Cas doesn’t know exactly where Dean is at any given moment, so Dean has been begging him, in between bouts of incapacitating pain, to check his phone.

“Let them go,” he finally says in a quiet voice.

Meg leans down until they are nose to nose. He has to force himself not squirm away, her closeness making his skin crawl.

“I didn’t quite catch that, Dean.”

“Let them go,” he repeats, swallowing his discomfort. “Please. You have me, so… Just — please.”

“Oh… Dean.” Her voice is bursting with barely suppressed glee. Her eyes dance with it. “Do you think this is all about you?” she asks. “Hurting _you_? Killing _you_?” She lifts the knife and twists the tip of it into the cleft of his chin, grinning vindictively. “That’s adorable.”

Damn it. He’d _tried_ to keep them safe — salt lines all around the house every night, devil’s traps under every rug, cast-iron fixtures and tools and everything, even had them get anti-possession charms — _why_ couldn’t Lisa remember to set a simple ward?

“Of course, you are a big part of it,” Meg concedes, straightening up and running her free hand through his hair as she walks around his chair. “I mean, I am going to enjoy the _hell_ out of pushing you to the limit of the human tolerance for suffering, and then gutting you like a fish and turning your innards into accessories.” 

Dean’s stomach flips as her languid nasal voice descends to a discordant growl, fingers tightening in his hair and yanking his head back.

_Cas, now would be a good time to stop ignoring me,_ he inwardly pleads.

“But this is also about _family_ ,” she snarls in his ear, “and if you think there is a snowball’s chance in Hell that yours is getting out of here, then you seriously underestimate how much I. Hate. You.”

_Please. I’ll let you listen to that touchy-feely crap you like in the car. I’ll let you_ drive _the car. I’ll stop teasing you. I’ll go to fucking church!_

“See,” Meg says, tickling his ear with the bloody tip of his knife, “I had a family, too… you know, before you killed them all. And I know you don’t think demons can actually _feel_ things like family and love,” she continues, her mouth too close to his ear, “but I think you’ll change your mind after I make you watch me shave the meat from their bones like rotisserie chickens and feed them to my puppy.”

Dean closes his eyes. _For God’s sake, Cas, where the fuck are you?_

~

Cas squeezes his eyes shut and listens helplessly to Dean’s prayers growing more desperate by the minute. His is not the only voice ringing in his head, either; Lisa’s and Ben’s souls are both sending out cries of distress to any higher power listening. But Dean is always the one he hears as if he were right there, speaking straight into him.

Vergil’s voice ripples through the thick, silent room.

“Listen to all that noise,” he purrs. “Your humans would be very easy to find, if anyone cared.”

He finishes cleaning something that looks like a corkscrew and slides it back into place among its fellows. Under the voice of his friend, Cas can hear the velvet moving against angelic silver, the faint shuffling of the Quartermaster’s shoes on the concrete floor, the sickly _drip-drip-drip_ of Balthazar’s blood and the worrying silence of his true form.

_Please, Father, help,_ Cas pleads. He feels ridiculous even trying, but prayer is the last recourse of the desperate. Besides, he still has — not faith, exactly, but hope — hope that his Father can still hear him.

Vergil’s laugh bounces off the walls. “ _Help_ me, Abba, _help_ me,” he mocks. “You sound like a human child, Castiel. No one can—”

The room shudders to a noise like thunder, killing the words on his lips. A huge surge of power knocks Vergil to his knees.The air in Cas’ lungs escapes in a forceful gust as his eyes fly open. Vergil’s blade appears in his hand as he rises, shooting a glare at Castiel.

“What is this?” he snarls.

_It can’t be_.

Cas’ mouth falls open and he stares at the door. He has felt this power before, knows exactly what it is. Relief and dread spread through him together like tendrils of frost as he realizes that, for one, they are all doomed, yet this is probably the best chance he could have hoped for to save Dean.

Vergil whirls and takes an angry step toward the door just as it is blasted into splinters and bolts. The discharge of power from the broken wards blinds Castiel for a moment and he turns his face away, blinking the spots and dust out of his eyes. When he looks again, he sees nothing but an ordinary adolescent boy standing in the debris.

Who just destroyed seven layers of angelic warding, and is now regarding Castiel and Balthazar with an uncertain mix of curiosity and caution.

He has grown a head taller since Castiel first met him.A too-large dark green hoodie hangs from his thin frame, the sleeves rolled up and bunched thickly around his elbows. His hair now falls down his neck and across his face in fine brown strands. The freckles that once sprinkled his cheeks have erupted into a downpour, and his skin is much tanner. His eyes are still soulful and dark, but there is a wall behind them that was not there before.

“Jesse,” Cas murmurs.

Jesse’s eyes flicker to his face, then widen in surprise.

“It’s you,” he says, stepping over the rubble and approaching the angels. “What are you doing here?”

Cas blinks. “What am — what are _you_ doing here?” he demands. “And _how_?”

_Unimportant. Dean._

Jesse gives an uninterested shrug as he examines the shackles holding up Balthazar. “I’m here to rescue this dipstick,” he says, looking him over with a sickened grimace. “What happened to him?”

Cas doesn’t look at the mangled, shredded mess of what is left of his old friend. With his Grace intact, Balthazar is not dead; without the ability to heal himself, he is not exactly alive. His soul is simply suspended in the ether like an empty, torn-up sack.

“Vergil,” he answers.

“Is that the other angel who was in here just now?”

Cas clenches his jaw. “Yes. What did you do to him?”

_Doesn’t matter. Dean._

Jesse shrugs. “Sent him away.”

“He will be back soon. Whatever you are going to do, I suggest you hurry.”

A small smile appears on the boy’s lips as he reaches up to break open Balthazar’s shackles as if they were made of aluminum foil.

“We have time,” he says. He catches Balthazar’s full weight, staggering slightly, and presses his palm into the angel’s filthy brow.

Cas is about to protest that no, in fact, he does not have time, but the words die in his throat when, in the space of an instant, Balthazar is completely healed and cleaned up. He yelps as his eyes fly open and jerks away from Jesse, steadying himself against the wall.

“Jesus CHRIST, boy, don’t _ever_ do that again!” he gasps, clutching at his chest.

Jesse scowls. “You’re welcome.”

Balthazar snorts and runs his fingers through his messy hair. “If I wanted to feel dirty and hot,” he sneers, “I would have just gone to the internet. Besides, you’re late” he adds, dusting off and straightening his now spotless blazer.

Jesse rolls his eyes and returns his attention to Cas, whose mouth is hanging open in disbelief.

“You know each other?” he asks.

Balthazar winks. “I know all sorts of people.”

“What about him?” Jesse asks. “Do I free him, too?”

Balthazar gives the boy a startled look. “Of course you free him too,” he says. “Does he look like an enemy to you? He’s strapped to the wall!”

Jesse crosses his arms and gives Cas an accusing look.

“He _is_ an angel,” he points out. “And last time I saw him, he tried to kill me.”

Cas’ stomach sinks. Of course _his_ mistake would be what dooms Dean.

“ _I’m_ an angel,” Balthazar retorts, “and can you blame him? You’re the bloody Antichrist! Get used to it!”

Jesse’s scowl deepens. He uncrosses his arms, his hands balling themselves into fists at his sides, and the sickly fluorescent light above them flickers and sparks as his voice rises to an angry crescendo, although the effect is somewhat spoiled by a pubescent crack.

“I told you not to call me that!”

“Jesse.”

Jesse turns his glower on Castiel. There is a ring of shadow around his irises, and Cas has to swallow down the sudden urge to be as far away as possible, thinking about Dean.

“I am sorry,” he says.

Jesse blinks. The light stops flickering, but the air remains dark and thick.

“I am very sorry for what I did — what I tried to do,” Cas repeats. “I believed I was doing the right thing at the time, as horrible as that sounds, but I do not expect you to understand that. You were a child with no idea what was happening, and I… I should have had more compassion. I should have listened to Sam and Dean. I should have given you a chance to prove me wrong.” He bites down on a wave of remorse as all his mistakes come unbidden to his mind, parading across his conscience in time with Dean’s urgent calls for help. “I have been wrong so many times. But now — do you remember Dean? He tried to help you. He is in danger — and so is his family, a wonderful, gentle woman and a boy about your age, two of the kindest people I know — any moment, they could die, because I am trapped _here_. So I don’t really care where you’ve been or what you’ve been doing. I just want to save them. Help me, and I will be in your debt.”

The light is back to normal. Jesse peers at him through the curtain of hair across his face.

“You promise not to hurt me?” he asks. “No matter what?”

Cas doesn’t miss the catch lurking behind that question, but whatever it means, it will have to wait.

“I give you my word.”

Jesse just looks at him for a long time ( _Dean, Dean, Dean_ ). Finally he nods, reaches up and breaks Cas’ manacles. He backs a few steps away and watches impassively as Cas rubs some feeling back into his wrists.

“ _Finally_ ,” huffs Balthazar. “Can we _please_ go now?”

Cas meets Jesse’s sullen gaze and sees the same frightened, innocent soul inside that looked back at him the first time.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Whatever, I didn’t do it for you,” Jesse mumbles, turning away and picking a path through the ruins of the door. Then he turns back, beckons to Balthazar, and fixes Cas with an expectant look.

“Come on,” he says, “let’s go save your friends.”

~

Meg watches with a smirk as two of her thugs drag Dean’s chair — and Dean — across the warehouse floor and drop it — _BANG_ — next to the wall, facing the pillar to which his girlfriend and her son are tied. The drop jars his spine and brings his teeth crashing together right through his tongue. He utters a sharp cry, muffled by the thick wad of cloth stuffed into his mouth. His blood starts to soak into it and trickle down the back of his throat, making everything taste and smell like salt and rust.

The thugs laugh and walk away. Dean feels hot wet breath on his knees as an invisible weight rests in his lap. He falls very still, his pulse climbing to a punishing rate.

A moment later, a spotlight switches on from somewhere high above and paints a large yellow circle on the floor about ten feet in front of him. He blinks in the sudden brightness as Meg crosses the light to where Ben and Lisa are bound, gagged, and blindfolded. She barely touches both of their cheeks. Mother and son tense up simultaneously, provoking a fit of giggling from Meg and both her cronies as she strokes their faces and hair.

He can’t really make out how badly they are hurt, but other than a clear cut across Lisa’s cheekbone and a dark blotch over Ben’s left eye, they seem fine. Of course, that doesn’t account for any bodily injuries or internal damage, not to mention the trauma and potential interpersonal fallout — he has the irrelevant, detached thought that if they make it through this, he is _so_ dumped.

Meg hums and turns around to smile at Dean.

“I can _not_ decide who to do first,” she complains. “I know it doesn’t really matter, but it seems like one of those little things that says a lot about a girl’s personality.” She turns back and takes Ben’s face in both hands, cupping his jaw and running her fingers through his cowlicks. “Do I want my dessert first, or last?”

Dean’s body is screaming to struggle, every muscle tense, every nerve ending on fire, but there is a low, steady growling coming from the area of his crotch.

“Eeny, meeny, miny, mo,” Meg starts to chant, pointing back and forth between Ben and Lisa, “catch a Winchester by the toe. If he hollers…” She bursts out laughing. “Oh, forget it. Bring the mother.”

She strides back through the light and up to Dean, crouching down to scratch the invisible ears of her pet. 

“Who’s a good boy?” she coos. “Are you ready for din-din?” 

A soft whine comes from the monster. Dean realizes it’s small for its kind — 

_Holy shit, it’s actually a puppy._

Meg walks away and the smell of hellhound seems to follow her. Dean’s muscles relax a bit. A lot, actually. His eyelids start to droop and his vision blurs even more. Panic and bile rise in his throat as he recognizes the signs of an adrenaline crash, compounded by the effects of blood loss and probably shock.

_Cas. Anyone._ He tries praying one more time as he watches one of Meg’s thugs drag Lisa into the middle of the spotlight. _No, Cas. You son of a bitch. If they die, I will never forgive you._

It’s not fair, and it’s not Cas’ fault, but he doesn’t care. Cas is probably busy with something way more important than him, but he doesn’t care about that, either.

_You said you’d help me keep them safe. You promised._

The other thug comes up behind Dean and grabs his hair to hold his head up. 

“No sleeping,” he admonishes. “Show’s just getting started.”

“Ready?” Meg asks brightly. Dean gives her his most poisonous (most helpless) look. She brings up his knife to Lisa’s scalp. “Good.” 

Then she lowers the knife. 

“Ha. I just realized something. This is kind of a family tradition, isn’t it? Watching your mother die?” She motions to the thug by the pillar. “Take off Junior’s blindfold. Let him die a _real_ Winchester.”

The look on Ben’s face when the demon removes the cloth, visible to Dean even from his dark seat and through his quickly clouding eyes, is like a cannonball to his chest, punching the breath out of his lungs and tearing fist-sized chunks out of his heart.It’s a look he’s seen in the mirror a thousand times, a look that appears in his nightmares and stabs at his conscience and punctuates his entire damn life. It’s fury and heartbreak and death in the making, and he never never NEVER wanted to see it where it is right now.

Meg raises the knife again.

“Well, well.” A familiar slick voice jumps out from the dusty shadows. “This looks like fun. Mind if I cut in?”

Dean nearly chokes when Crowley steps into the light, all oily class and sartorial perfection and _fuck you very much_ , as if he just stepped out of an old Bond flick where he is somehow the villain and the hero at the same time.

Dean’s surprised intake of breath sucks a loose strip from the rag in his mouth to the back of his throat, where it tickles and sends him into a vicious coughing fit. Between this and the adrenaline crash, he doesn’t see much of what happens next. There are flashes of white light and suddenly everyone is screaming or shouting. He hears a piercing canine yelp and several thuds as bodies hit the floor, then it’s all just white background noise and a general feeling of _what the hell_ as he blacks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical Credits
> 
> "Carry On My Wayward Son" -Kansas  
> "Going to California" -Led Zeppelin  
> "So Far Away" -Crossfade


End file.
